Getting Stoned in a Glass House
by Crystallized Honey
Summary: Alfred is bitter. Not because they tried to kill him, but because they failed to finish the job.
1. (Prologue) Left for My Demons to Find

_Where does one go in passing?_

 _Heaven or Hell?_

 _To be reincarnated? To be dispersed into the stars scattered throughout space?_

The afterlife is a terribly drawn-out joke.

When Alfred awakes, he is already dead.

The first thing he notices is: _there is no God_.

No everlasting happiness settled among floating white clouds of impossible fluffiness that stretch on for miles and miles. There are no large, shiny golden gates awaiting his arrival. No seamless chorus of angelic voices singing beautiful melodies. There is no bright spectacle of light symbolizing hope at the end of the tunnel. It's all a lie.

There is only the eternal shadow of darkness cast by the heaviness of his eyelids. A horrid dampness that crawls across his skin, fills his mouth and weighs down his tongue. It surrounds him, seeps into his pores, clogs his nostrils. It pushes with unyielding power against the weakness of his body until the heart slowly pulsing in his chest stutters to a halt. It crushes him, compresses with frightening strength.

Sensation is a fleeting dream, guided in and out of existence by his slipping consciousness. Sleep sucks him into a warm embrace before he is tore away by a stone building beneath his ribs, a piercing pain sparking along his nerves. His skull fractures with agony, growing much too small for the spontaneous combustion of the brain rattling around in his head.

His mouth is dry, throat tight and constricted. Everything is still. Everything is muffled and quiet, not to be disturbed by a voice he no longer possesses.

Like a phoenix, he rises from the ash-fertilized soil of another's mistakes. He is brought into respiration among previous death, tottering in faulty balance between both.

But he does not feel alive.

He does not feel anything.

The frigid breeze of the cooling morning is lost to him, though it pricks goosebumps up and down the length of his dirtied arms. His body quakes, shuddering in its effort to draw forth oxygen. He hacks and coughs, snorts forcefully to expel the softened earth that has crept into his body.

When his eyes finally flutter open, dull and paled by impending expiration, there is a steady drip that obscures the vision in his left. It leaks from his eyelashes, falls into fading baby blues and drains down his cheek like spilled tears.

Light is limited. Far out into the distance there is a sliver of heating oranges passing the line of the horizon, broken into tiny pieces by strong tree trunks standing tall in the surrounding forest. Still, it flickers like an apparition in his sight, wavering and oddly distorted. The image bounces, shook into trembling vibrations that blur when he attempts to stand.

He stumbles under the increasing weight of his own body, knees nearly giving out. Each step forward is made heavy by fatigue, incredibly slowed. He presses a hand against the fullness of his stomach, stretched taut into roundness. The skin ripples beneath his palms, rises like rolling waves as his muscles spasm. Nausea simmers, unable to make it past swallowed organic remains.

He drags himself forward against the lead bleeding through his anatomy, crunching fragile branches and brittle leaves below his bare feet for hours until his toes are rubbed by sleek asphalt. Like traveling through a disintegrating memory, his vision darkens steadily, colors dulling, images fluttering teasingly into view seconds before disappearing swiftly. They are chased away by inky shades.

Between living and perished, he wades, awaiting rescue by either.

Then, a horn blares in his ears, headlights tear brightly into his eyes, and he feels relieved by nothingness.

 _What happens when you die?_

 _Where do you go after death?_

When Alfred awakes, he is in Hell.

The first thing he notices is: it's like he never died.


	2. Growin' Up Like a Grapevine

**trigger warnings for the entirety of this story: attempted murder, actual murder, lots of violence, implied/referenced rape, non-consensual drug usage (aka drugging), animal abuse, homophobia, character death, sexual situations (though not explicit) between a minor and an adult, age difference, underage sex.**

* * *

A light, steady rain slickens the empty roads, splashing against uneven asphalt in quiet _pitter-patters._ Its descent from the heavy, darkened clouds clashing together above slants in sheets, path disturbed by strengthening winds.

Alfred watches as litter tumbles down the street, jingling a handful of coins together against his sweaty palms. Silver _clinks_ and _clanks_ against one another, the quick pace of their jittery dance resembling the nervousness he feels. His leg jumps incessantly, knee bouncing to an unrelenting beat accompanied by the thump of his heart.

The fabric of his pants is already damp along the bottom hem, leaving him uncomfortable whenever he shifts and the cold wetness hits his ankles. The small, standing shelter at the bus-stop does little to block the diagonal drizzle of rain from splashing against his face and clothing, soaking goosebumps into his flesh.

When a police car zooms by, Alfred snaps his head downward, careful to avoid eye contact. He pretends to be absorbed in an unavailable distraction. Anything to appear normal because the pistol pressed into his skin at the hip suddenly burns red-hot. A phantom sensation of searing pain jolts his body upright, his stomach caving inward in a futile attempt to escape being singed.

The heat is eliminated once the taillights of the vehicle are swallowed into the shadows. A sigh of relief is swept away by a passing breeze.

By the time the bus arrives, the showers have graduated to a violent downpour. The wet weather leaves Alfred cold and dripping. Large tires crunch against loose sediment scattered throughout the road and the bus creaks ominously when the doors open.

 _Twenty-five, thirty-five, sixty…_ The coin collector chomps away at the silver, grating obnoxiously loud while sucking quarters and dimes down into its body. There is no need to watch the numbers tick after each coin, he'd counted and counted several times, but Alfred continues to look anyway. Bashfully, he feigns surprise when the total falls short of what is required.

The bus driver does not notice, hands gripped the steering wheel tight as the man focuses on beating traffic lights that linger on yellow.

Alfred gets moving when he is lurched forward by unexpected acceleration.

He takes a seat in the very front, lays his head against the dirtied window, uncaring of the bacteria itching to relocate to his hair. It feels as if all eyes are on him. Hushed conversations fill his ears. He wonders if they _know_. _Could they pinpoint the acrid, metallic sharpness of gunpowder on his loose clothing?_

Anxious, he glances behind him, taking count of three other passengers; a woman, yapping into a Bluetooth device clipped to her ear, bundled comfortably in a mellow mint raincoat, a balding, old man reading a newspaper, and a young male who appears to be sleeping, a name-tag pinned to the breast pocket of his button-down shirt.

The rickety, old bus stutters as it moseys down the road, bouncing and giving a hazardous groan whenever deterred by a pothole. All passengers jerk harshly with each movement. Alfred's head falls away from the grimy window, then crashes back into the glass whenever a particularly rough bump is encountered. He does not bother to fix his position. The short pounds of pain are welcome.

 _If his head collides enough times, will the damage be able to relieve him of the images that turn his stomach every time his eyelids slide shut?_

Closer and closer to familiar-named streets, the bus rolls onward and rocks Alfred into a welcome drowsiness (he cannot remember the last time he slept). Rain no longer pelts heavily against the window, tiny raindrops serving as a reminder of a storm that never fully came to be. Then, the cruising halts, wheels squeaking in protest of braking.

An intoxicated man stumbles through the stiff doors, knees buckling whenever he takes a step forward. He rambles drunkenly to himself, brown eyes unseeing as he moves to find an available seat. There are plenty, due to the time.

But the drunkard chooses to fall into the seat beside him, nearly toppling over with the motion, smelling horridly of hard liquor and vomit in a way that rustles up buried memories. Alfred shrinks in on himself, tightening his hand around the pinched cotton of his waistband, avoids turning towards the other even when the man begins babbling incoherently, pausing only to choke on a noise that sounds as if he will be sick at any moment.

The rest of the ride is spent with Alfred's heart fluttering quickly in attempt to escape his chest, eyes squeezed shut, his concentration centered on breathing.

* * *

Home no longer feels like home, Alfred notices.

The rain has ceased and is drying along the pavement, puddles of water remain still, no longer disturbed into ripples by an agitated downpour. Wet leaves clog the gutters rounding the roof of the house before him. Vividly colored flowers dance in the garden along the perimeter of a pristine white picket fence, guided into a slow waltz by the consistent breeze. It's perfect.

He doesn't belong here.

His keys are gone. The clothing he adorns is not his own. His cell phone is missing. His vision is blurry and difficult to focus without glasses perched around the bridge of his nose. His smile is gone. The brightness in his eyes is gone. He has been _desensitized._

 _Would his family be able to recognize him?_

Alfred stands on the porch for several long minutes, frigid winds whipping against his cheeks, contemplating whether he should return. The window to the living room is illuminated with a subtle yellow light, signaling someone is home, though the the driveway is void of a vehicle. Matthew, most likely, is panicking behind the folds of the curtain shielding the inside from the view outside. A wave of guilt crashes into him and anchors a stone in the pit of his stomach, so he rings the bell and raps his knuckles against the door without further thought.

On the third knock, the door flies back on its hinges, revealing a frantic Matthew (as expected), and as soon as Alfred passes over the threshold of their home, he is being bombarded with questions.

"Alfred! Oh, God! I was so worried! We all were. The police have been searching for you. What happened? Your face is all bruised. Why haven't you been answering your phone? Where have you been? Did—"

Effortlessly, his mouth responds, cutting through useless inquiries, "Out."

"For _three whole days!_ " Matthew exclaims incredulously, following Alfred up the stairs with a determined quickness to his steps.

 _Has it really been that long?_

"I stayed with a friend," Alfred lies easily.

"What friend, Alfred? You couldn't have called and told us you were fine? Mom's been worried sick. She's out looking for you now."

"I'm tired. I'm fine. Everything's fine. I stayed with a friend and I lost my phone. Leave it alone, okay?"

"Okay... okay," repeats Matthew, nodding as if trying to convince himself to believe Alfred's excuses. "I won't pester you any longer. Just— I'm glad you're safe."

Matthew, filled with relief at the return of his brother with life still breathing into him, throws open his arms and goes to squeeze Alfred. But before he can be completely enveloped in a suffocating embrace, Alfred shoves the other away by the shoulders. His twin appears to be shocked by Alfred's aggression, stumbling two steps back from the force. Then, he asks in a wary whisper,

"What happened to you, Alfred?"

The worry, the _pity_ in Matthew's voice tears a hole in his chest. He does not want to answer. No one truly _wants_ to know. No one _has_ to. He doesn't want to remember.

" _Nothing happened._ I just don't want you touching me."

That is the only lie that hurts. Unable to watch Matthew's disappointment drag his expression into sadness any more, Alfred storms into his room, raging like unstoppable winds, and slams his door closed. The lock _clicks_ immediately afterward.

There is a burning sensation behind his eyes and he knows he is close to crying, so he ducks his head and reminds himself that he no longer has time for tears.

Darkening red is dried into the gray material of the t-shirt he wears beneath his baggy hoodie. It is yanked off with a brutal tug, scrambled into a small ball and tossed into an empty shoe box. Every article of clothing he is currently wearing is ripped off in a haste and stuffed into the small confines of the cardboard. He hauls the box overhead to the top of the closet, hides it behind a stack of comforters to be burned later.

Stopping at his dresser, he tugs the magazine from the stolen handgun, dumps out the bullets and watches them cascade down into a tiny pile atop the wood. He tosses three spent shells into the mixture and brushes it all into the top drawer. The weapon and all its components are concealed by neatly folded shirts and rolled up socks. Then, pushed out of sight when the drawer slides shut.

 _Do you know what you are?_

His gaze is drawn towards the ceramic cup that contains pens, pencils, and markers; all utensils used in communicating with his brother whenever texts went unanswered. In particular, the red one calls to him, he grabs it, pops off the cap and strolls in front of the mirror hanging off the back of his door to respond to the question recurring over and over in his head. The reflected image appears unfamiliar to him.

 _Do you know what you are?_

 _Stupid_ , he writes slowly onto the glass over the reflection of his face. Then, _annoying._ _Gullible. Faggot. Disgusting. Useless. Slut._ That is how _they_ saw him.

His writing speedily dissolves into frantic scribbling, becoming less and less eligible with every insult. His hand blurs against the mirror, letters and words alike blending into a meaningless nothing until the image of his figure is difficult to make out beneath the vibrant red.

In the length of the mirror stands a broken boy, lost and misunderstood. Bruised and battered, both mentally and physically. The smudges of purple and indigo edging into pinks and muted greens along his body, the crazed, jumbled writing on his mirror, are and is adequate proof of that.

It's sickening.

Anger possesses Alfred and he clenches his hand into a fist, shatters the mirror with enough strength to bruise his knuckles. Microscopic fibers of glass eat away at tender skin, embeds in fragile flesh. The collision is thunderous, yet relatively uneventful. Briefly, he wonders what it would feel like to shatter bone beneath his own hands. Would he be so enraptured by the pain experienced by his victim that his own would vanish?

It's a laughable thought. And even in the destroyed reflection of himself, he can still see that he is nothing beyond the muted scarlet that has smeared along his stomach and arms after soaking through the shirt he had worn earlier.

Blood that's not his own.

He rushes to the bathroom to erase the evidence of seventy-two hours in the shower.

Made pale by the continuous stream of water pouring from the shower-head, diluted blood sloshes against the porcelain sides of the tub before swimming down to the thirsty drain to be sucked away with bubbling suds of leftover soap. Steam floats leisurely up towards the ceiling, curling from the high temperature spray that is hot enough to burn.

Alfred scrubs harshly at his skin, hoping to soothe away broken blood vessels and odd coloring. It hurts, but the pain only encourages him to scrub harder. He scrubs and scrubs and scrubs until his entire body is rubbed raw and tender by his washcloth, now sensitive to the lightest touches. It is a fruitless endeavor. No matter how long he stays beneath the rain of the shower, scrubbing and washing, even as the water begins to cool, nothing changes.

The sensation is similar to how vulnerable he feels.

Thirty-three miles away from home, _they_ had dumped his body. _They_ hadn't even tried. _They_ , _they_ , _they_. Like kindling to the fire of his rage.

When he shuts off the water, he expects to see muddied waters draining from the tub, chunks of earth spread and immobile along the bottom. Except there is no dirt, no darkened hand-prints skimmed across the wall. That had been _three days ago._ Three miserable days ago. He steps out, wet feet landing on cold laminate tile, wraps a towel around his hips and wanders to the mirror because _they_ keep tormenting him; memories he cannot bring himself to erase just yet because they serve as a reminder of _why_ he is doing this.

 _Don't cry. Say it with us. Do you know what you are? Tell us._

Alfred knows. However, he's changed.

With his fingertip, he draws the word into the steamed mirror. Each letter capitalized, intricately written with careful precision. Meticulously rounded inward, then drawn outward, his finger trails slowly on the final consonant, ending the script in a jagged descent.

 **MURDERER**

His hand swipes through the fog layered on the mirror careful to avoid the spontaneous calligraphy lingering at the very top, the cloudiness breaks down into tiny water droplets of condensation speckled across the glass until damp blonde hair and drained blue eyes are made visible. And for the first time in three long, weary days, Alfred genuinely smiles.

This is his resurrection.

 _He's_ making the rules now.


	3. Wrapped Around You in Due Time

Night falls with sluggish precision, leisurely spilling indigoes and midnight blues across the sky. Darkened colors weigh down the melting sun, dragging it beneath the frozen line of the horizon. Remnants of coral hues linger in remembrance of day as the curved moon becomes the surviving source of natural light cast from above.

The alleyways are always silent at night, much like the surrounding streets. There is no conversation made by passersby to waft down the lonely pathways. No hustle and bustle of the living. At night, the only noise to be heard comes from scurrying mice and starving cats embarking on their daily journeys for proper sustenance while shielded by the darkness.

Workers close down their shops and ready themselves for tomorrow's work. Others prepare themselves for the beginning of the graveyard shift. And Alfred… Alfred ventures out into the darkness, a sealed can of tuna and a plastic bag being the only items on his person. His keys are still lost along with his glasses and phone, though he is sure he will not need them anyway.

Impulsiveness lures him into the alleyway behind the local bakery, hidden behind a large blue dumpster with a can of tuna in one hand and a plastic bag peeking out of his pocket. It is the only explanation. Only minor details are calculated (the food, the bag). The rest is like an out-of-body experience he witnesses from light-years away.

He hisses in mild pain when he lifts the tab on the can and pulls it back, the jagged metal slicing into the skin of his finger. Blood pools within the split flesh, oozing slowly and pulsed outward by sharp stings. Instinct tells him to suck away the darkening liquid that beads along the wound before it can trek a trail of red down to his palm. However, the thought of infection stalls him.

And a pleading meow steals his attention.

An exotically-striped cat of stormy gray stalks warily out of the shadows, black pupils scarily wide like round dishes floating within a sea of greenish-yellow color. Cautious of startling the stray, Alfred tucks his finger into his palm and squeezes, uses his uninjured hand to present the can of food teasingly. He crouches down, drops the can onto the dirtied and stained cement, and waits for the animal to draw close, watching its head bob as its nose is hard at work.

A few clicks of the tongue against the roof of his mouth paired with a gesturing hand and the cat hurries closer, whiskers bending around the metallic can as it leans forward to eat. Alfred watches intently, slyly moving closer and closer, halted momentarily in short increments by frightened glances whenever his steps grow too loud—too suspicious.

The chomping noises of the tuna being devoured sounds loud in the slim alley. Or maybe Alfred is simply listening too hard as he brings himself to full height. When his movement receives no reaction, he shifts forward to step on the lazily flicking tail swishing back and forth near his feet. Lightly at first, then with all of his weight.

The cat yowls and attempts to lunge for his leg, throwing open its mouth to display sharp teeth ready to sink into his flesh. The raw rabidness of the animal is a threatening, almost frightening sight to behold. All the same, it is expected behavior, thus Alfred's boot is ten times faster when it comes down forcefully upon the animal's head.

He brings his foot down over and over and over. Well until the motion becomes mechanical. Well until his muscles grow tired and he grows accustomed to the feeling of something giving way beneath the force of his own strength. He does not watch, unable to stomach his own cruelty.

The most he remembers is the swirling graffiti drawn across the side of the dumpster. Most of the letters are unreadable. Alfred laughs.

* * *

A strong hand clamps across his mouth, sloppily catching his nose in the process. He is yanked backwards, nearly falling over (if not for the solid body standing tall behind him) when his feet catch on one another. He can't breathe, whether through mouth or nose, blocked by a barrier of smooth leather and rough, unyielding fingers clenching around his jaw.

It takes nanoseconds for the potential danger of the situation to hurl him into a nausea-inducing panic. Instantly, he begins to struggle, jerking about viciously in the bone-crushing hold that envelopes him; a hand squeezing his cheeks into his clenched teeth, a forearm strewn across his chest.

Excruciating pain explodes in his head, steadily increasing in aching volumes the longer he is restricted from breathing. His vision becomes spotty, the night sky being swallowed by darkness, black dots dancing tauntingly in the distance, blurring and fading in and out. His heart slams into his ribs, leaving his chest feeling as if his flesh is slowly, _very_ slowly, being stripped away.

He lurches left and right, lips parting in a desperate attempt to suck in oxygen to no avail.

For the second time, he is dying in— _by_ someone else's hands. For the second time _, he is not ready to die._

One particularly fierce twist of his neck gives Alfred just enough room to inhale sharply, a quick series of wheezing breaths. With his concentration centered on breathing, he forgets to scream for help, even though his mouth remains uncovered.

 _(subconsciously, maybe he does not want to be saved)_

Instead, his arm is twisted harshly behind his back, pulled upward and forced into a position that makes it feel as if his bones will snap at any second, the knuckles of his hand meeting awkwardly with the plate of his shoulder blade. The ferocity of his struggle lessens as the fear of dislocating or cracking an important part of the body settles in.

A knee jabs into the back of his legs, he buckles. A foot rams into his back, he crumples into a useless heap hillside. His forearms endure the brunt of the force when he hits the ground with a gasp. Swiftly, he turns over, scrambling backwards to get away from the man stalking towards him, face shrouded in darkness.

"Stop it!" yells Alfred, voice pitifully faint.

His pleas are disregarded as unbelievable strength slams into him from above and below. A heavy weight settles against his hips, pins him to the ground with palms crushing his sternum and determined fingers driving like stakes into his shoulders. Jagged rocks and round, miniscule pebbles dig into his back and bump along each ridge in his spine, sets his nerves ablaze with pin-point needles of agony.

Those hands quickly slide from his shoulders to wrap around his neck with bruising force when his efforts to escape spark anew, thumbs compressing his windpipe, shoving a lump into his esophagus. And it begins all over again; the spotty vision, the haziness, the aching headache that resembles a bat cracking against his skull as he flirts with death.

"I'll scream!" Alfred rasps quietly, trying to heave breaths in spite of the tight constriction seizing his neck.

"No, you won't. You're too scared," the man says tauntingly.

Nevertheless, the grip weakens, finally allowing him to breathe without the tiring process of fighting. Alfred lurches upwards, shakes with coughs that scratch his throat raw, leave it itchy and terribly dry.

When his eyesight begins to clear, he is met with startlingly bright violet irises staring down at him, a heartless face of pale, luminescent skin.

"You were too scared then and you're too scared now. Isn't that right, Alfred?"

A voice made to awaken terror in anyone.

Alfred's panicked attempts to escape his captor's hold cease immediately. The press of his fingers into the man's wrists slackens and his body becomes limp. The blood rushing through his veins runs cold. Under such a merciless gaze, Alfred finds it hard to speak. Finds it hard to so much as think in a way that is horrifyingly familiar. Captured and helpless, he has been here before.

"You have something of mine and I want it back. If I don't get it within a week, I'll put you back where you came from. You remember where that is, right, Alfred?"

With no strength left to fight, Alfred nods meekly. Fear renders him virtually incapable of anything beyond normal involuntary actions. He squeezes his eyelids shut against the haughty smirk spreading across Ivan's face because it's _too familiar_.

They stay shut until he is no longer being pinned.

Until whatever vehicle Ivan arrived in peels off, giving an ear-piercing shriek of rubber on asphalt that echoes in his ears well after the red taillights of the car have disappeared. Alfred stays where he is, head resting uncomfortably against a large stone, dry blades of grass prickling his cheeks.

 _I'll put you back where you came from. I'll put you back… put you back._

 _You remember where that is…_

 _...right, Alfred?_

"Back in the dirt," Alfred answers slowly, dreadfully monotone.

 _I'll put you back where you came from._

 _Remember… Alfred?_

Suddenly, Alfred is back there. Back beneath the dirt, the earth heavy and solid, compressing his body, creeping into his mouth, his nose, his soul. _Dead_. Or was he _dying_?

Then, he is not.

High above and shockingly clear in the night sky, the waning moon bathes him in a soft, illuminating glow. The light caresses his skin, swaddles him in a clean reality. He has to remind himself that he is in control now.

 _I'll put you back where you came from._

"Not if I bury you first."

* * *

The pungent smell of urine is putrid and sour in the air. Alfred ponders how long ago the bathrooms were last cleaned as the soles of his sneakers peel away from the sticky floors, parting from the linoleum like tape. In the empty restroom, his footsteps echo. The door croaks in irregular rhythms as it stutters closed behind him, finishing with a heavy _slam_ that bounces off the smudged walls.

As quietly and quickly as possible, Alfred squeezes into the stall farthest from the entryway and pulls the door towards him, cringing whenever the rusted hinges squeak particularly loud. He slides the lock into place, sealing himself within the tiny, cramped area. Backwards, he shuffles, lifts his foot up onto the toilet seat, careful to avoid clumsily stepping into the water below, and drops into an awkward crouch atop the porcelain bowl.

Disgusted by his current position, he tries not to think of the filth and grime festering around him when he rests his hands along the walls to aid in maintaining a stable balance. Thankfully, his worries are cut short by the saddened groaning of the door once more.

Really, it's like clockwork. He won't be here for long.

Nothing is said by the persons who enter the bathroom. Their footsteps are cautious, sounding in quick succession. When they stop, Alfred expects to hear conversation. Instead he is granted with the squeal of the knobs on the faucets being turned. The water rushes out in full-force, just a tad too noisy.

Then, a series of loud thumps follow, informing him that each stall is being checked for any stragglers that may be looking to eavesdrop.

His heart beats heavily in his chest the closer the boy draws near, presumably throwing open the door to each stall to ensure no one is lurking. Hinges squeak, doors slam, the walls of the stall shake. Fingers curve around the top of the solid plastic blocking him from the view of the others, the hand pulls and Alfred stops breathing, certain the boy will go the extra mile and check beneath the door.

Luckily, he doesn't. Alfred has never been so grateful for bacteria-infested floors.

Once the inspection is over, a voice harshly whispers, "I fucking told you to get rid of it. Why the fuck did you keep it?"

"Where was I supposed to dispose of it?" asks another.

"Oh, I don't fucking know. _Anywhere_! What the hell made you think it would be a good idea to keep the damn thing?"

"I wasn't thinking. I didn't want to do this. This was all your idea."

"You looked pretty fucking happy to agree when it was through, though. Didn't even show a hint of remorse when it was your turn to play. Then again, I guess it wasn't a mistake that you fucked up and didn't finish the job right."

"That's not my fault. It wasn't supposed to go that far."

"What do you mean 'it wasn't supposed to go that far?'"

The question drives a brief,almost awkward pause into their rushed, hushed conversation.

"Look. We just have to deal with the fact that he's back now. It's only a matter of time until he spills so we either burn at the stake or shut him up for good this time. No mistakes."

"I'm not a murderer."

"None of us are. Nobody will miss him. Is it really murder if he was already fucking dead?"

"He wasn't, though."

"Everyone thought he was so if it really happens this time, no one will even blink. Think of it this way: if we don't do it, he's going to end up doing it himself anyway. We're just speeding up the process. As for the phone, we'll just keep pretending it's yours. Kiku has our back."

"Are we sure we can trust him? They've always been close."

"Sure, we can. Unless he's not ashamed of admitting he played a part in it."

"I can't believe he actually…"

Whatever is said is spoken so lowly that the sinks finally do their job of masking the conversation completely. Alfred assumes it must have been humorous when a combination of their laughter fills the bathroom, volumes above the rushing water.

Then, they are silent and the sound of rushing water ceases. Their footsteps shuffle away from his stall, the door belts out its usual creaks as it opens and closes, and Alfred is left alone to piece together a story he is certain he plays the starring role in.


	4. Now That He Has You

**stupid me. i forgot to add a note: this story is not told in chronological order, but in the order that Alfred remembers things. There is also no obvious distinction made between present events and past events because he struggles to differentiate between the two. In this way, you could say that Alfred is kind of an unreliable narrator. i keep forgetting ao3 and ffn are a little different.**

* * *

Lightning streaks fast across the night sky in a sharp, jagged bolt; there one second and gone the next. It is a bright, blinding blur in Alfred's eyes, splitting everything above in half to pull down the rain heavier, quicker than before. The highway soaks in the flash, revealing its surroundings for the briefest of moments, but the downpour tears into his vision, rendering him near sightless.

The asphalt beneath him is slippery and hard with tiny bits of gravel that embed themselves into his bare skin. Tires, only mere inches away from crushing him, skid cautiously along the road, kicking up sediment and disturbing growing puddles that spit out a harsh spray.

Car horns blare noisily, but no one stops. They zoom by without hesitation, perhaps thinking him a drunk. And maybe he is drunk. His body feels weightless, he can't bring himself to walk, the world appears to be off its axis—spinning, spinning, tottering.

Thirsty. He is thirsty. The rain battering his face reminds him of this fact. In streams, it cascades over the hills of his cheeks, nose, lips. Throat parched, Alfred pries open his mouth, allowing his tongue to loll out. The miniscule beads of water that do not miss are like a teeny taste of heaven, though it is less like a sip of water and more like a light spritz of moisture. A small trickle that travels down the hatch without hydrating.

 _Don't do that, Alfred. You'll get sick._ His mother's voice echoes in his head. A pleasant sound that stands strong alongside throbbing pain.

 _Nuh-unh,_ replies a defiant child—Alfred, when he was younger, less broken. _I won't get sick. I'm invisible._

A bitter laugh traps itself at the base of his throat. He had been so stupid. Just like they all said. Stupid. _Invincible,_ he wants to say in correction. He knows that now. He is _not_ that now.

 _One, two, three, four—_ Alfred hazily takes count of the seconds between each strike of lightning and its consequential boom of thunder. Numbers, patterns, things that can be disputed—his tether to consciousness. Another blaze of lightning, bright enough to imprint its existence into his closed eyelids, refusing to be ignored. _One, two, three_ — It's not the quake of thunder that interrupts.

A car door slams shut. Footsteps travel toward his weakened body. Alfred peers upward, staring into nothingness, blinking away sheets of rain, the stabbing rays of shining headlights.

Another voice fills his ears; one that lacks the distinct dreamlike familiarity of the first. Although, this time it is washed away by the tittering sound of a torrential downpour. Words break down into odd syllables, half inaudible, half discernible yet not at all capable of being fully deciphered.

Not that it matters any when Alfred cannot bring himself to move his lips and tongue in unison to respond.

What would he say if he had the ability to do so?

Would he— _should_ he call for help?

 _Help._ The simple word that earned him a clenched fist to the temple and a rough hand clamped tightly against his mouth the last time he used it. Was it days or hours ago?

The flavor of salt, sweat licked from the clammy skin of a man, remains imprinted on his taste buds. The smell, however, is lost. Buried deep beneath an urgency to draw breath through his crushed nostrils.

Just like that, Alfred is back there. There is… where? Where.

Something presses into the skin just below the corner of his jaw, presumably searching for the subtle throb of a pulse. Pain erupts along his side and he rolls over, drawing his knees into his chest, leaving his back exposed. Pain shoots through his spine next, causing him to arch his back inward uncomfortably.

"...kay?"

 _"K" what?_

"...me, sir… are...kay?"

 _K._ Is he okay? Mustering the last bit of energy he has, Alfred slowly shakes his head. Right, then left.

Then he is floating. Has he finally died? Is his soul leaving his body? No, that can't be right because he can still _feel._ A forearm fits firmly behind his knees, his neck falls into the crook of an elbow, the entire left side of his body is hefted against something solid. Moving, he is being carried somewhere. Transported.

Alfred opens his eyes; when had he closed them? The headlights of the car bob up and down, drawing closer and closer until they disappear behind the hulking form of his savior. Each step they take is clunky and slow, albeit never staggering. Past the front of the car and to the back where he is transferred from the brief safety of strong arms to the dry leather of the backseat.

The door closes behind his feet. A door opens, a door closes. The rain is a lot quieter shielded within the walls of the vehicle. It pitter-patters against the windows, creating a soft melody, combined with the low rumble of the car's engine, that almost lulls Alfred to sleep immediately. But here, his thoughts are louder. Here, he can finally think clearly. Here, he can make out full sentences. Questions. Like the one that is asked the very moment the car slides back onto the road.

"Do you need to go to the hospital?"

An intense fear quickens the pace of Alfred's heart. The hospital. A whirlwind of doctor and nurses prodding and poking and questioning, pestering. A lonely white room drenched in the potent stench of cleansers and sterilized equipment. Sickness in the air, death lurking in the shadows. They'll have to phone his mother. She'll be distraught. As will his brother. He does not want that, nor does he want them to see him in this state. This traumatized, weakened state of confusion.

"N—" the sound drags its way out of his throat, scratchy and hoarse. He clears his throat several times before trying again, increasing the volume of his voice to be heard without doubt or room for discussion. "N-No."

He does not want to go.

"Where is your home?"

"C-Can't re-remember." His answer is made choppy by the twinge of shivers. The cold is ready to make itself known, pricking goosebumps into his arms and legs. Alfred curls into himself once more, cringing at the way the smooth material of the car's seats seems to suction to wet skin.

It's a lie, of course. He remembers well. He remembers everything. But this, this man, whom Alfred catches a brief glimpse of in the rearview mirror, does not know that. Regardless of the way in which their eyes lock in the tiny pane of glass, like violets standing tall, faces turned up toward the sun, under a cloudless blue sky. Harsh and scrutinizing irises that speak wholly of knowledge.

Behind the narrowed eyelids and pinched lips, Alfred can tell that the man is full of unspoken inquiries. None of them come. And for that, he is grateful.

He turns away, switching his focus to the ceiling instead of those overwhelming eyes that possess the ability to see _through_ him. Through his poorly constructed lies.

The drive to nowhere continues on in silence.

* * *

"Wake up."

Alfred has no clue how many hours, _miles_ have passed when he is awakened by a rough shove to the shoulders.

The car is no longer purring, the engine is dead. The consistent rat-a-tat of the rain has also ceased; replaced by the chirps of hidden crickets.

"Can you walk?" the man asks, intently inspecting every move Alfred makes from the frame of the car door.

"Yes." Alfred replies. It is much easier this time. And a lot less strained.

True to his word, he peels himself off the leather seats, drags himself to the edge and plants his feet onto solid ground. Grass. Grass covered in miniscule beads of rain. Luscious green grass sprouting from dirt made muddy by the previous showers. He squeezes the soft blades between his toes, savoring the feeling of being able to stand upright.

The man—he has not been offered a name as of yet—steps to the side and closes the car door once Alfred is out of the way.

"This way," he says, ambling deeper into the forest that surrounds them.

Trees, dozens and dozens of trees in every which direction. Tall, too; thick, strong bark that rises on forever. The night sky is barely visible beyond the crosshatching of leaves. It's difficult to follow behind the man with his feet bare and his glasses gone. Dense foliage covers the forest floor in scattered patches. Alfred battles low-hanging branches and invisible prickles to keep up.

It isn't long until the trees break into an open clearing. A large, old-fashioned wooden cabin stands in the center. The style is rustic, obviously constructed for efficiency and not luxury.

A dated cabin in the middle of nowhere.

Alfred's mind quickly surfs through his memories, throwing out the most gruesome, horrifying scenes from every hack-and-slash film he has ever watched. Glinting axes, large machetes, even blunt shovels; all weapons used to tear apart unsuspecting humans who had come to rest in a cabin in a barely known or unknown section of the woods.

His companion, though broad-shouldered and stone-faced, does not reflect the image of a killer. At the very least, not a psychopathic, brutal killer but someone who might lose control due to a short fuse. Not exactly scary, but not something to dismiss either.

The stairs leading to the porch groan under the weight of their footsteps, the wood so swollen with water that the middle caves slightly inward. Alfred considers asking whether the foundation of this home is stable, then thinks better of it. _Short fuse_ , he reminds himself.

There is no need for a key to enter the man's home. With no signs of society for miles, agonizing over turning the locks every day seems to be a useless endeavor.

Inside, the cabin is much more modern. Homely, even. The floorboards do not creak and moan, the walls are nicely polished wooden panels and the furnishings are that what would be found in any ordinary home in the city. Plush area rugs, glass coffee tables, a wall adorned with expensive-looking abstract art that has probably been mass-produced for much cheaper.

Through the living room and down a thin hall, Alfred is led to the bathroom. He spends a moment alone, glancing around the alarmingly small space. There isn't much to see. Just a shower, a sink, a mirror above that, and a toilet. All crammed together. Here, the decor is kept to a minimum: a small rug to catch water from a person's feet after showering, a ceramic soap dish, a plastic rod meant to hold towels and rags.

"Wash. Change."

And a neatly folded pile of clothes topped with a faded blue washcloth plopped onto the sink, is all Alfred gets when the other returns, only to disappear a second later.

Combating a man of few words, Alfred is left to figure out the unmarked knobs for different temperatures of water himself. He quickly slips out of the only item of clothing he has, his underwear, and pushes back the frosted glass of the shower. When he reaches back to grab the washcloth, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. The rain, though heavy, hadn't completely cleared his body of dirt. He is filthy. Disgusting. His expression is doe-eyed, yet _haunted. Traumatized._

He pulls the shower door closed a tad harder than needed and cringes from the loud clang resounding throughout the tiny bathroom. Naked, he waits tensely for _something_ to happen. He's not sure what but nothing comes, so he reverts his attention back to the task at hand.

There are two identical knobs on the wall. One for hot water, one for cold. Alfred decides to put his faith into the one on the right. The steel is slippery and takes quite a bit of effort to be turned. It fights the process, squealing loudly with each twist until it finally gives in. The shower-head above sputters for a moment before dousing him in a shallow spray of frigid water that's cool enough to make him shout.

A knock comes almost immediately after.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes," calls Alfred over the sound of water, fumbling with the knobs until the temperature is just right. Then, in explanation, "Yes, I'm okay. Thank you. I accidentally hit the cold water. It's fine."

"Sorry."

Heavy footfalls signal the man's departure and that is the end of that.

By then, the water is hot enough to be scalding, a relentless torrent that causes Alfred to hiss through clenched teeth. The pain is familiar, welcome, even. A momentary distraction. He leans his head forward, drooping between his shoulders and pulling vertebrae uncomfortably taut. Water rolls down into the channels of his ears, distorting all sense of sound, dredging up memories of dirt and digging.

He slams his palm into the wall, anchoring himself. Softened dirt smears along the once spotless tiles, painting a blurred image of a hand with splayed fingers. The edges bleed. _He_ is bleeding. Bleeding pebbles from asphalt, twigs and leaves from the forests, fat lobs of soil alive with worms. _Tears._ Most of it clogs the drain.

The process of washing is a tedious project. No matter how hard he scrubs, it is never enough. So Alfred scrubs, and scrubs, and scrubs again, with a ferocity that leaves his already mottled skin an irritated pink—a pink that skirts the edges of sickening blues and ugly purples. Until it hurts, like he has rubbed away a layer. But one is nothing. His pain and trauma runs deep beneath the rivulets of mud and soap suds that stream down his body.

When the water runs cold and shivers rack his body, he still does not feel clean. Nevertheless, staying in the shower is not an option, lest he wishes to entice sickness.

With no towel, Alfred hastily shimmies into the clothing provided for him: a large black shirt, a baggy pair of gray sweatpants. The cotton fabric sticks to the beads of water still on his skin, soaking in the moisture and leaving an unpleasant dampness.

He exits the bathroom without inspecting his appearance in the mirror. He doesn't need a glimpse of his reflection to know that his eyes are tinged red from silent bawling and his skin is about as pink as a newborn's from the ruthless drag of the washcloth. Contrary to this, Alfred adopts an award-winning smile anyway—just for show.

The bash and clang of cookware greets him in the narrow hallway, a siren's call for the hungry. The delicious aroma of foreign spices fills the air and a rumble deep in the abdomen joins the fray of pots and pans.

 _When was the last time he'd eaten?_

Lingering in the entryway of the kitchen, Alfred peeks his head in, fingers curling around the wooden frame. There's a large pot simmering on the stove, clouds of steam curling from beneath the lid. On the counter a mere two feet away, various vegetables wait their turn to meet the sharp side of a chef's knife. The silver gives a deadly glimmer as it rises in quick strokes, up and down, that speak of practiced ease. Potatoes, turnips, carrots; all perfectly quartered in a rhythm that does not falter, even when Alfred gathers the courage to speak up.

"Um," he begins, unsure. "Thank you for letting me shower and for giving me clothes."

The _chop, chop, chop_ of the knife against the cutting board is the only reply. Still, Alfred does not give up.

"Well, for everything, really. I appreciate it. You may have saved my life."

That much is true. Good. A healthy dosage of sincerity before the inevitable heaping of lies to be told.

"You are welcome," the man answers, laying down the knife.

He does not seem to be interested in either giving or receiving identification, but Alfred takes the break in strained conversation to add on, "Alfred. My name is Alfred."

A rattling sounds from the stove, the lid to the large pot quaking until it is removed, releasing a mushroom of steam. In the vegetables go, _plop, plop, plop._ A spoon dips in for a few swirls, then the lid is replaced to let everything simmer. The man strides over to the kitchen sink to wash his hands, setting the knife and cutting board aside. He's drying, a towel wrapped in his fingers, having not yet turned to face Alfred when he whispers softly, "Ivan."

* * *

Dinner is composed of a hearty stew and buttery, round rolls. Of each, Alfred is given a generous helping, which he devours with unrestrained gusto. Ivan, on the other hand, is without hurry. Whilst Alfred proceeds to shovel food into his mouth, he bows his head, seemingly in intense concentration, and mutters what Alfred can only assume is grace.

Alfred considers joining in, but thoughts of where he's been, what he's done, what's been done _to_ him. He does not wish to be blasphemous.

Silverware clinks quietly; spoons scraping out the circumference of bowls, knives slicing and spreading butter across bread. The silence hangs over their heads like a ten ton anvil.

There is not much of importance to discuss between two highly cautious strangers with thousands of secrets to hide. When the quiet becomes too much to withstand, Alfred leads them into a trying bout of small talk. Together, they stagger through all the casual points: the weather, local happenings broadcast by the news, sports (of which neither of them has very much knowledge) and everything in between that shies away from anything personal.

It is during another painful lull in conversation that Alfred daringly pushes the limits, compelled by something unknown.

"Don't you worry out here? You know, being in the middle of nowhere and all." And, because he does not get an immediate response, he continues warily, "Wouldn't that make you particularly vulnerable to robbery or something?"

Ivan snorts humorlessly into his soup, swirling the spoon through a maze of thick chunks of vegetables and tender beef. "No. I have a gun."

Alfred freezes, his own spoon full of stock-soaked potato halfway between his lips. He is forced to gulp down a mouthful of uncertainty before he can continue to eat. Suddenly, the savory taste of the stew is gone. Everything is bland. If Ivan notices this hesitation, he does not speak on it.

It is a rather long moment before Alfred finds the strength to talk again, tone meek, "What if someone gets to it before you?"

At this, Ivan lifts his head, cold eyes blazing with flames blue enough to rival even the darkest indigoes. And though his bowl is not completely empty, he rises abruptly from the table with an ear-piercing shriek from the chair as it drags across the floor, and drops it into the sink with a clatter.

"Then it would not matter. I can assure you that if someone were to get to it before me, I would surely already be dead."

He bids Alfred goodnight and retires to his room. In the kitchen, the atmosphere remains somber. Alfred finishes his meal alone and in silence. He has his answer, at the very least. All that's left is the matter of what to do with it. Perhaps it'll come to him over a bowl full of seconds.

* * *

 _I have a gun. I have a gun… a gun._

Ivan's words echo without end in Alfred's head.

A gun. A weapon used to _kill_. Here—in this very house. At his disposal.

Is it meant to be? Has destiny led Ivan to save him, to bring him home and take care of him so that he may retrieve it? After all, where will he get a firearm of his own? But he hasn't yet decided how to recover from his… _incident_. The intended result had been death, right? So of course, in the name of justice, it is only right for him to return the favor, is it not?

Lying prone on his back, Alfred mindlessly studies the ceiling, counting and recounting the wooden panels. In the darkness, without his glasses, it is a difficult task, but the needed focus keeps his thoughts from reeling.

The crickets are quieter now, singing in hushed whispers that glide into the room on a light breeze that filters through the open window. Hidden within the grass, they share Alfred's paranoia. They do not want to disturb the stillness of the night. Alfred follows their lead, slipping out of bed without so much as a sound.

The trees, however, are not nearly as kind. Their branches shudder with the force of the wind, sending the leaves in a chattering uproar that fills the darkness with pure noise; a boon that disguises the occasional creak of his tip-toed footsteps and a curse that destroys his ability to detect the movements of others. So he waits, going about his mission in odd increments that flow with each inhale and exhale of the air.

 _Inhale_ ; he stops by the door to the guest bedroom where he is meant to be lying asleep.

 _Exhale;_ he pushes it open, mutely praying that the squeak of the hinges cannot be heard over the rustling leaves, and creeps out into the empty hall. There is but one window to allow in the skimpiest rays of cloaked moonlight, and it is located at the very end, at the start of the wraparound that leads into the living room area. The opposite of where he plans to go.

Inhale, exhale; it is a game of stop and go until he reaches the door to the master bedroom. Again, he hears those words. _I have a gun_ , Ivan whispers into his ear, though with his other pressed against the door, Alfred can pick up on the huffing sighs of the man snoring. This knowledge, however, does nothing to lessen his fear. Around the brass knob of the door, his fingers tremble. There is no excuse he can provide for sneaking into Ivan's room late at night, therefore, he cannot afford to be caught.

 _What do you have to lose,_ Alfred thinks in attempt of a weak mental pep talk. But it works.

On the next exhale of the wind, he pushes the door open slightly and slips through the tiny crack of space. It is a squeeze made easy by his concave body from a sucked in breath that he never seems to let go of. Not even when he is over the threshold and feet away from Ivan's sleeping form. He looks utterly exhausted, asleep on his side, yet tensely straight.

In here the moonlight that pours through the open window with the curtains drawn neatly at both sides is oddly brighter. Like there is a break in the trees outside, less leaves to obscure the sky. A haunting glow cast over Ivan's face. His expression is not relaxed and Alfred wonders if the moon disturbs his rest. Will it wake him?

There is no time to think about it. _Get in and get out,_ is the plan.

Two identical nightstands, adorned with identical lamps, are pushed against either side of the large king-sized bed. They each have a drawer for storage, and an open shelf area below that filled with books. Behind the door is a tall dresser with antique style drawer pulls. A closet is to the far right of that. All places where one might store a weapon.

Alfred starts with the dresser, going out of his way to always have Ivan directly within his vision. He slides the top drawer open as quietly as possible to reveal an assortment of folded shirts, digs beneath and between them. Nothing. As goes the same for the rest of the compartments. The only thing that changes is the type of clothing found in each; shirts, pants, loungewear, socks (two pairs go into his pocket).

Next, he tries the nightstand to Ivan's back. Just as he pulls it open, the other snorts, shifting to roll over. Alfred cannot breathe, struggles to keep from bolting. Out of fear, he closes his eyes, if only for a split second. The rapid movement behind Ivan's eyelids can be a good or a bad thing. Once more, he reminds himself that he does not have time to think.

The drawer to the nightstand is hard to open. A jerking movement is needed, but it pulls from the frame with a jarring squeal and Alfred is too frightened to chance opening it fully. Half way through the process, he gives up and shoves a hand into the dark space to feel around. His fingertips jab into what feel likes metal. A box? Around the edges and to the front something dangles off. A lock?

 _This has to be it!_

It takes a bit of shifting and wiggling, banging and jangling, but the item is eventually drawn from depths of the drawer and clutched in Alfred's arms. He doesn't examine it before putting things back as they were and sneaking across the room is long strides. A chance glance back toward the bed shows that Ivan has not moved and Alfred's heart finally ceases its skittering beat when the door is closed.

No longer concerned about stealth, be scurries down the hall past the guest bedroom and into the living room. There, he inspects his bounty. It is, indeed, a locked box. A heavy but flimsy looking thing of a relatively moderate size. The lock does not appear to be much sturdier, tiny with a hole at the bottom that requires a key—nothing a heavy rock cannot disable. He shakes it, not sure what it is he is listening for, and it gives a rattle.

Whether it is what he wants or not, Alfred does not have the time to find out. _Time,_ he finds, is something he has long since run out of. He is a dead man walking.

One second, he is standing in Ivan's home, barefoot with guilt written all over his face. The next, he is racing through the trees under the watchful gaze of the moonlight. Branches grab for him, trying to drag him back, snagging on his clothes and skin. Dead leaves crunch beneath his feet, weighed down by boots much too big and filled with socks to compensate. Alfred runs until his lungs burn and pain seeps into his ribs.

He does not know where he is going. He does not know what he will do. For now, he is not thinking of the gun he will fire three times, the three bullets he will shoot into an unsuspecting victim, the ticking bomb he will become.

That all will come later.


End file.
